So it’s your regular old story of insomnia: waking up in the middle of the night, unable to doze off again, you grab the iPhone and Google the phrase “Sting‘s cock.” Don’t pretend you’ve never done it. The little fella got mad press in the ’90s, what with its renowned Tantric stamina, and I was curious what it was up to these days.
Well what to my wondering eyes did appear, but a link to a greasy little tome called Road Hazards. To explain just what kind of literary wonder this is, let me quote here from the excerpt that came up in my search:
Sting moaned, the sound coming from deep in the back of his throat, thick with need. Andy imagined Stewart’s lips closing over Sting’s cock — or was it now his cock, in his mind — yes, he could see those full lips sucking down him, enveloping him in their warm, moist heat.
Yep: it’s a fantasy about Stewart Copeland, um… “googling” Sting, while Andy Summers listens in and has a wank. In fact, it’s a whole short story about the subject. In fact, it’s from whole fucking book about homo-riffic rock fantasies: James Hetfield seducing the singer from Korn! My Chemical Romance fucks The Used! A circle jerk with Iron Maiden! A roadie who blows Iron Maiden! Drunk sex between members of Iron Maiden! And come to think of it, just what is the deal with Iron Maiden anyway?
I can’t put my finger on the certain je ne sais quois that makes a find like this so magical, but here are a few elements I adore:
* There is always a delicious satisfaction to witnessing something that seems so “gay” (heavy metal, Ricky Martin, the Catholic Church) blossoming into something actually gloriously gay. And while I’ve been rightfully called out for my use of the word gay as a pejorative on this very blog, I think I can safely apply the term here as a way of describing actual homosexual activity. And hooray for that. Hooray for the gayness of rock.
* This satisfaction is made all the sweeter when I think of the homophobic rage-boners this likely induces in the legions of mullet-headed, Camaro-driving fuckwads who made high school so unpleasant for gentle souls such as myself. Suck it, dirtbags.
* There’s a purity to the awkward yearning of these passages, a furtive teenage longing in which desperate white-hot virgin lust struggles against one’s inability to write well. Plus, as an erstwhile touring musician, I’m always entertained by people’s impressions of what life on the road must be like. It’s like watching a 6 year-old play rocket ship in a cardboard box. But come to think of it, once way up in the north of Scotland in the men’s room of the venue I found a condom dispenser that sold inflatable sheep, no joke. That was pretty exciting.
* But I guess most of all, in our porn-soaked age, when you can get into this series of tubes we love so well and be whisked away to any type of sexual wonderland you desire, it’s rather quaint to think that there’s a rare breed of self-diddlers out there who prefer the subtle pleasures of the written word, and that they share their rich imaginings with us.
